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Lee Hamblin
Summary ---- On a stroll through the Hoovervilles of Old Town, one might wonder as to the story of one of those hungry men gathered near a foul-burning trash fire. Some rave at passers-by, some drink, some sleep. Lee Hamblin leers at you; a mean old knave, a three-legged stray kicked one too many times. A glance in his direction is all he wants from you; so you can peer, if only for a passing second, into his wild flint eyes — into a well of pain and perception even deeper than his gambling debts. A farmhand, a teamster, a stonemason, a rigger, a swindler, a gravedigger, a gambler, a fire-blooded pistoleer — a dishonest man so far in the hole that he's given honest thought to an honest day's work. He calls himself Stagger Lee. Description ---- Here leers a dust-caked, sun-beaten husk of a man, craggy and antediluvian as the plains he calls home. Ragged and rough, most who happen across this fellow take him for one of the many homesteaders-turned-panhandlers that populate shanty towns across Westfall; the shoe might even fit if not for his partiality to boots. Under closer inspection, the harness of crude dwarven revolvers strapped across his chest and the impish, gnashed-teeth grin plastered to his face spins a different story entirely — the story of a rambler, a surly, revenant son of the Dagger Hills. Ths intractable specimen was born Wesley Hamblin, though he'd surely introduce himself differently — usually by the proud monicker "Stagger Lee", earned for the oddity and lurch of his gait, though previously as "Lightnin' Lee" or "Lucky Lee" before his leg injury. The more pious among the Light's devotees might (justifiably) call it a tribulation just to set eyes on this heathen, for the mere sight of Lee cuts like the blustery fury of a Westfall twister. Lee is imposing, of above average height and possessed of lanky, sturdy frame; what he lacks in sheer mass between broad-set shoulders he makes up for in compact and tightly-corded muscle, product of a transient life and bouts of malnourishment. Lee moves with all the urgency of a tumbleweed, only harried when a storm is on his heels. On a wuthering west wind, Lee navigates the world with cockeyed fluency, swaggering with a one-of-a-kind gait, a limp in his right leg making for a perpetual lurch. Stubborn as the Rock of Gibraltar, there's a look of gleeful insubordination in his ever-squinting, flint-hued eyes, as if unyielding in a staring contest with the sun. Steep and rutty as the rest of him, his features come to jagged points, the shape of his face bearing striking resemblance to a coyote — no coincidence, considering his scavenging ways. His only redemption is in his gravely, succoring drawl, with which the old world proverbs and countryside idioms of a folk balladeer are rendered in a coat of molasses. You won't hear Lee's story from his own mouth. There are, however, a few clues stained on his body in time-worn ink — the likeness of some androgynous mercreature on his left shoulder suggesting a past affection for the sea, a chisel and mortar emblem on his right forearm marking a membership in the now-defunct Stormwind Stonemasons Guild, a pair of badges resembling coffins on the knuckles of each pinky finger identifying him as a gravedigger of the Stormwind Assassins' Fourth Finger, and the morbidly humorous instructions to 'bury with boots on' emblazoned prominently on his chest in stylized font. A Dusty Piece of History ---- Journal entry of Earl Pinkerton, Retired Moonbrook County Marshal When the printing presses in Stormwind get to churning, all they ever speak of my town is damnation — Defias this, poverty that. The soil’s dried up, they say. Ain’t nothing but shanty towns and panhandlers and lawlessness out there, they say. It weren’t always like this. At one time, they called this place a breadbasket. For my part, I can’t imagine why. Even before Van Cleef’s insurgency, the fields were stained red. These frontiersfolk are a violent lot by nature, temperamental and inclined to bloodshed. Shouldn’t surprise anyone that a separatist would find safe haven here, not when his sentiments are about as common as sun in the summer. Hell, a land as surly as this one starts to rub off on you — to toil it, you gotta be meaner than it is. Don’t believe me? Let me tell you about two families that kilt each other to the last son. Back when I was cutting my teeth under Marshal Evans — roundabout two decades ago — he and I got called up into the Dagger Hills to settle some quarrel between two farmsteads. A couple of old coots — each the head of his family — were out saddled on the fence between their properties cussing and hollering at the other, a rifle under each’s arm. Ernest Hamblin had a temper that quaked like thunder. Emmett Holt had an ire that split like lightning. Someone had dug up gold, can’t be sure who. That gold mine sat underneath a well smack dab in the middle of their territories. Neither was prepared to swallow his pride, or even strike a bargain. Gold and grain ain’t made equal, and each man wanted to be rich like a king. Evans talked them down, promised to come back with a lawyer to draw up some documents. They both agreed, we left. Few days later, the Marshal and myself rode back up to check on things. At the top of the hill near the Hamblin Stead was a dead oak tree. Hanging from that tree was three boys, not one of them older than eighteen. We found out later that Ernest Hamblin had been gunned down two days prior after another poisonous dispute. And that his son Wyatt had gone and kilt two Holts in revenge. And that them three Hamblin boys hanging from the tree was the Holts way of "settling the count". Wyatt was hung by his bollocks. Weren’t an hour later, after double-time down to the Holt Stead, that I beheld a sight still sorer than a trio of lynched young-uns. As we came across the ridge into Holt territory, before we even saw the Stead, the Marshal and I heard shots ring out. Many. It was a few minutes before they stopped. When we arrived, I saw a boy standing in the swirling dust — tall, skin and bone, in flared boots and a short haliscan jacket and a flat brim hat. The oldest Hamblin boy, Lee — a pistol in his hands, blood in his eyes. Weren’t much left of the Holt clan; Lee kilt three of their cousins, the remaining brother, the mother, and even a child of eight years. Emmett Holt was out front bleeding and squealing like a stuck pig, within an inch of death. Evans dismounted and went up to Lee toting a scattergun, telling Lee to drop his pistol. Lee wheeled around slow-like, surrendering his pistol over to the Marshal butt-first. When Evans took a hand off his scattergun to take the pistol, Lee gave him the road agent’s spin, flipped the pistol by the trigger, and shot Evans dead in two blinks of an eye. Lee scooped up the scattergun before the Marshal even hit the ground, then drew a bead on me and said, “Get on now, so I ain’t the only one that’s gotta walk away remembering this.” I turned and rode for home. When I got back over the ridge, I heard one last shot. That ain’t the only story like it, I’ve heard others. I just happened to witness this one. And them nobles back in the city, in their satin and silk and lace, say they’re surprised that the Defias can pluck up “perfectly decent” farm boys and make soldiers of them. I ain’t. In every one of them farm boys, there’s a Lee Hamblin waiting to give someone hell. All it takes to wake him up is a kick in the head. Category:Stormwind Navy Category:Stonemason's Guild Category:Defias Brotherhood Category:Stormwind Assassins Category:Human Category:Stormwindian Category:Characters